


getting drunk for the end of the world

by CosmicDusty



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Other, gender neutral reader, you're shitfaced yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:42:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9343040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicDusty/pseuds/CosmicDusty
Summary: Stuff isn't so fun in your life right now.  Daryl shows up and things may or may not get slightly less not-fun.





	

You are so drunk. Shitfaced drunk. Sloppy drunk. You sit splayed out on the floor of your kitchenette, back against the cabinets, bottle of whiskey in your hand. One of your favorite vinyls spins on the record player and you sing along out of key, words slurred, having the time of your life; until you aren’t. The music may be loud, but not enough to drown out the groans of the dead, the slap of their hands against the glass of the window behind you. You take another swig from the bottle, relishing in the burn of it before throwing it across the room. You laugh at the sound of the glass shattering on the wall across from you. 

The process of getting to your feet is shaky but once up you throw your arms in the air and scream, “It’s the end of the world, bitches, do your worst!” 

Tears track down your cheeks in stark contrast to your crazed laughter. Everyone you know is dead, and the glass is cracking. You wobble unsteadily on your feet and the next thing you know you’ve tumbled back down to the ground. The idea was to drink yourself to death _before_ the dead found you, but hey, being torn apart would probably be worse sober. 

Was it the music that drew them to you? Probably, but you shrug it off. They’re here now, might as well not beat yourself up over wanting The Red Hot Chili Peppers to play you into the next world. You can’t help but giggle at the thought. Maybe you’ll meet them in heaven. Ha. 

“Fucking hell, place looked empty from the front.” 

That does not sound like your voice. That voice is gravelly and low. You tilt your head back and see a figure retreating to the front door. He has wings on his back. Maybe you did die.

“Hello,” you say. “Why are you in my house?” He stops, turns around. His eyes take a second to find you where you lie on the ground, looking at him upside down. 

“The fuck?” 

You snort. He’s too dirty to be an angel. “Don’tcha know it’s _rude_ to not notice someone when you break into their house?” You think you managed to slur that out correctly.

He stares at you for another second and tiring of that you sit up, then manage the tedious process of standing again. Your head spins. Your body whirls with it. 

“You… drunk?”

“Well, yes, I sure hope so.”

He grumbles something that sounds like, “Dumb bitch doesn’t have enough sense to stay sober at the end of the world.”

You snap back, “Didn’t get drunk on accident, ya wet sock. Not being sober was _kinda_ the point.”

He can’t retaliate because it’s in the middle of this sick argument with a not-angel that the glass decides to break. 

“Oh fuck,” you say.

“Fuck this,” he groans.

You try to run forward and end up slipping -- you suppose wearing socks on smooth floors wasn’t a good idea either -- and this guy, bless his stupid dirty face, catches you before you can face-plant. And instead of just leaving that as his good deed of the day, he picks you up before he bolts, because obviously you can’t fucking walk right now, let alone run for your life.

The dead are still worming their way through the window, getting themselves caught on glass shards, the stupid fucks, so your head start on them is sizable. You deem it a pretty decent time to get introduced (generally being carried like a sack of potatoes away from dead people comes after introductions, right?) so while this man is hauling ass away from your house with you curled over his shoulder, you say, “My name is [y/n].”

“Yer fucking heavy,” he grunts.

“Okay, I didn’t ask you to carry me, Mr. You can’t do that and then insult me.”

“Think I can since I just saved your ass.”

“My ass could save itself.” Calling that a lie would be an understatement. “Anyways, dude, they’re not following. We lost them.” He turns slightly to make sure before he slows to a stop and sets you down on your own two feet. 

“What, no thanks?”

“I didn’t ask you to help me.”

“Well it’s obvious you needed it.”

“I was ready to die!” Your lip trembles. “I was ready. My friends are all dead. My family. I was ready.”

“Whatever.” He shakes his head and starts walking away from you. Tears spill over your cheeks and you collapse. You can see their faces when you close your eyes. Hear their screams. You… you don’t want to die. Not like that. 

“Thank you.” You call out as quietly as possible, but he hears. He stops walking. Comes back to you. Crouches in front of you. 

“Yer welcome.” You open your eyes and look at him, really look; his hair hangs long, getting in his face, his blue eyes too soft for that rough voice, his skin smeared with dirt and blood. The corners of his lips tug up in what you suppose could pass for a smile. “Name’s Daryl.” You manage a smile back. 

“[y/n].”

“So you’ve said.”

Daryl grabs you by the hand and pulls you up, tugging you along behind him.

“Ya must know how to kill the Walkers if you’ve made it this long.”

“Yeah, I do. Just… didn’t want to fight anymore after my friends… It happened last week. We were overrun.” 

“I’ve got a group,” he says. “I think you’ll fit in okay.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”


End file.
